Oranges and Grapefruit

Arms bundled against scratches from twigs and branches,

her hands gathering oranges and grapefruit

for Contra Costa Fruit Rescue.

The fruit is heavy, sweet and sour;

crates trembling in her arms,

she smiles at the thought

of someone filling their belly,

warm and fed.

Later, she takes the parking space

her neighbors sometimes claim—

there aren’t enough spots for them,

she could use her driveway.

This pettiness feels powerful.

In the kitchen,

flour dusting her hands,

sugar sticking to her fingers,

baking chocolate chip cookies

for her coworkers

whose smiles will heat her chest.

The oven hums—warm and satisfied.

Hours later,

her phone glows,

fingers typing venomous words,

threats toward a ghost of love

that haunts her.

The messages go out.

Morning’s light and evening’s dark

coexist in her hands, in her head, in her actions,

both real, both hers.

She sips zinfandel,

watches the sunset from her living room,

thinks of the oranges and grapefruit in crates,

cookies cooling on the rack,

her own words echoing back.

And in that space,

she knows:

human hands can heal and wound—

all in the same day.